My Music

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

I'm restarting at zero, some people are helping me begin to decorate the bar, and my first beers are on credit, BUT, CREDIT AGRICOLE (my bank) in 2010 telephoned me with a gesture of solidarity, which was an advance of a sum of money, half of which was to help me in my troubles, and the other half to be kept back for the reopening. Now there's been a change of staff resulting in nobody knowing anything about it! At the moment I've managed to get 1/3 of the sum they've agreed to give me which is 3/5 of the sum promised. Come on Credit Agricole, keep to your word.

Monday, 25 February 2013

Grand party to celebrate the rising of the phoenix from the ashes on its meeting with the dragon of Cymru/Wales on the day of the Patron Saint David/Dydd Gwyl Dewi Sant, March 1 (2 & 3) for the reopening of 'Tavarn Ty Elise' after 3 years of closure, at Plouie (Plouye), Finistere, Brittany.

Saturday, 23 February 2013

March 1/2/3: Fête of Welsh/Breton bar, Tavarn Ty Elise, Plouie (Plouye), reopening after 3 years of forced closure due to incendie, coinciding with Welsh national festival of Saint David/Dydd Gwyl Dewi Sant. Music & dance over 3 days accompanied by mesdemoiselles Ambrée, Blonde, and Stout, there for your pleasure.

Friday, 15 February 2013

Another Welsh association football team playing in the English pyramid and doing well, they're in the shadow of the four others, that's because they've drifted out of the spotlight into the nether regions. They have crucial gêms coming up against their promotion rivals, hoping to go up a division for a third successive year. I've followed them since I can remember because my gran used to live opposite, below Penydarren House in Trevethick St., we'd play where there were once bluebells in the grounds of the old Homfray mansion, and where F.A. Cup Final referee Leo Callaghan & others built their bungalows after the council knocked the house down; before we lost our childrens' football pitches where our coats served as goalposts, on a saturday afternoon we'd hear a murmur, walk through the skeletal house to see what was happening, and sneak in through a hole in the fence to see a real football match. Back in the fifties when clubs were voted into the Football League they were the best team in the land for years outside of it & the top Scottish clubs, but no matter how many times they applied they couldn't get the votes. In the end they couldn't get back to where they once were in the 1920s when they played against Aberdare in the 3rd Division South, so after years of frustration from banging their heads against a wall they slipped to their current position. After a lot of trouble & financial strife they seem to have got themselves back into the groove and are moving in the right direction, ask Owen Money. Up, up, up The Martyrs.

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

Pol Huellou got in touch with me today about the launching of a project 'Dylan Thomas, his Wales & his family' that will see poetry recitals in French together with excerpts from the autobiographies of his wife, Caitlin, and daughter, Aeronwy, accompanied and/or followed by music to be staged with a strong possibility at the bar on Sun. May 12. Watch this space. He also sent me 2 c.ds, one a volume of songs sung by the late Liam Weldon in collaboration with Pol, they toured together for 15 years, Liam once brought a 17 years old Davy Spillane to the bar with him back in the pub's very beginning about 34 years ago; the second, a poem 'Si la musique doit mourir' by the Tunisian poet Tahar Bekri, in 6 different languages, it is available through the internet on: iTunes; Deezer; Amazon, etc. In the meantime, today I drank a beer at the bar for the first time since Feb. 18 2010, THREE YEARS AGO, things are looking up, I expect to see a few of you on Saturday for an informal drink and a chat, but the pub isn't completed yet, so don't you expect too much, the opening day with festivities is March 1.

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Today I noticed that my domesticated wild daffodils are beginning to flower. As you all know I'm almost back in my bar so 3 days ago I decided to have a last fling and drive to Paris. I put 38euros worth of petrol in my old car thinking correctly that a vehicule that can get me to the Algarve in the south of Portugal can get me there no problem, and hoping that it would be enough because my budget was very tight with a limited amount of money at hand, but not to worry because the little amount spent would be reimbursed on opening day of the pub, whether provisional or official. This may be my last chance to meet old friends who follow rugby but who don't visit Brittany, I expect that after 3 years of unemployment I will be at the bar till I drop. I drove through the centre of Brittany, I could have gone through Saint Brieuc but I chose Loudeac, the roads converge near Saint Méen le Grand anyway and continue to the motorway tollgate on approaching Laval where I got my ticket at the entrance to show at the exit, it rained all the way and in some places there was fog. At the end near Paris I put the ticket in the machine to calculate the kilometers travelled followed by my bank card; with a queue building behind me my card was refused, strange because I'd already used it to fill my tank with petrol, a lady came across, looked at it, and told me that my type of card was not accepted with no further explanation. I drove on to Paris driving around with my petrol tank emptying trying to find a free parking space, impossible, I didn't want to waste my money nor time nor petrol so I ended up taking a risk, which got me a parking ticket and a 35euros fine to pay later instead of a 26euros parking fee to pay straightaway. I parked near the Eiffel Tower that meant my crossing the Seine (took four tourist photos from the bridge and one at the tower)to catch the Metro leading to my destination, Corcoran's Irish bar, just a little way from the Place de Clichy station, knowing that I'd meet up with the people and the ambiance I was searching. I totally upset my timetable & my budget but it was worth it, I met friends of friends from my next street, and from Rhymney, friends of Mogsy of MTRFC & The (in)famous Wyndham Arms on Glebeland St. who introduced me to Coombes the new forward from Merthyr's father, others introduced me to Robert Jones a former Welsh scrum half. Great atmosphere, it was an Irish pub but behind the bar there was an Argentinian, Bulgarian, Englishman and the Dutch barman who was working there the last time I visited, who shook my hand before I left telling me he was happy to see me again. Before I got back there on the saturday I lost my way after the Arc de Triomphe while time was getting on, I stopped the car to ask someone and it couldn't have been more simple; drive to the peripheral road, continue to the Porte de Clichy, turn off and straight on to Place de Clichy where I parked my car in a multi-story before rejoining the pub with a little time to spare. I drank with the earlier crowd from Rhymney, a couple who were cousins to Philip Joll the opera singer from Cyfarthfa School & Gellifaelog Tce and Robert his brother an ex policeman who went to the same sunday school as I did, big friends of Philip Beynon, cousin of Jane, who married my friend Malcolm, and Alan who used to unmercifully bully him in school, and if I remember rightly whose father died in the Aberfan disaster, and uncle re-established Merthyr Rugby Club after the war. I watched the match and went through the emotions, until the referee blew for the end of the match (incredibly we'd won in Paris after one of the worst records in our history of 8 straight defeats), in a round with a group of boys, 3 of whom were Parisians, the fourth was an ex-college international from Ferryside who played in the same side as a young James Hook, went to Paris as a chef, married a Finnish dancer working at the Moulin Rouge, had their first child in Finland and are now both back working in Paris. I met a man with his wife at the bar who worked for a year in Lloyd's Bank, Merthyr, before I left I paid with my card. Sunday I left the multi-story car park, ticket followed by card, same principle as the toll but this time was successful. I drove up to Porte de Clichy on red where I knew there was a petrol station, ordered my petrol on the 24h pump, put in my card but it was refused. My petrol gauge was almost on red, I was on the outskirts of Paris sitting in my car in the snow in a nightmare situation not knowing what to do next, was it my card? because I paid with it in the pub and the car park, or was it because there was no more money in my account? Someone asked me if I was going to move off, I explained my situation, he wished me good luck, after I'd driven off to a bleak immediate future I realized that I could have made a cash exchange for the use of his card, but now it was too late. I'd taken a calculated risk but had I miscalculated? With a sickly feeling I drove on in a westerly direction only guessing I was on the right road, I was on the motorway with no sign for Rennes, there was one for Rouen, I wisely decided against, it was snowing, I could see myself stopping on the side of the road and hitch hiking in the snow with my petrol can in hand to the next services, I drove on with one eye constantly on the gauge scared of what might come about, until, I believe these things are sent to test us, I espied a petrol station up on the right; I left the motorway still not to sure what was going to happen, I filled my tank, as I was so doing a swarthy stranger came up to me and said "are you Bernard Walters", bloody hell I'm famous, even known here on the outskirts of Paris; oh no, there's been a serious accident in the family and the police are out looking for me; "this is your credit card, you dropped it." I gratefully took back my card, went inside to pay and mercifully this time it worked. I had a close look at it, it didn't look any different to any other card, but in small print it said 'ELECTRONIC USE ONLY'. I asked the way to Brittany, I was on the right road straight on, thank goodness for that, but the weather was filthy, snow in Paris, then sleet for a long way and rain & fog until almost in Brittany where it was night but clear, then against the odds I got lost again outside Rennes, taking the Lorient instead of the Brest/Saint Brieuc road, unbelievable, lost in the centre of Paris, lost on the way out, and now lost in Brittany, a country I know well, Unbelievable because the last time I went to Paris in my car it went off perfectly, without error. I drove around central Brittany, just avoiding an accident, clipping a roundabout I didn't see until the last moment, watching the petrol gauge descend until I saw a sign for Merdrignac knowing that the road would get me to Loudeac, Rostrenen, Carhaix and home to bed. Got out of bed today and saw the yellow buds of my wild daffodils. Although the whole journey was misjudged and potentially ill-judged it was however all well worth it. Now for the pub, beer pumps installation in the morning.

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

In Rosemary Hawley Jarman's book mentioned earlier it was Lord Stanley, and not as I was taught, Rhys ap Thomas who placed the crown "...with great drama and reverence..." on the head of Henry Tudor, the Earl of Richmond, in the field after Henry had finished wetting himself and had turned to vomit that "none saw", "...; not through any squeamishness..." mind you; although she has it both ways - "Let it be over quickly, and let none see my fear.", and it was Henry and not Richard III who had the 'princes in the tower' murdered, but gradually the Tudors come into their own:
"Jasper will breed for us a Dragon,
Of the fortunate blood of Brutus is he,
A Bull of Anglesey to achieve,
He is the hope of our race..."
There is one little slip up that's hardly worth mentioning, but I will anyway, where the proof reader couldn't cope with the Welsh, for just after writing 'Maredudd' correctly we get 'Marredud! He/she could have conferred; but fair play to her the end of the book mainly belongs to Henry VII. "He knew himself the offspring of gods and princes...,"The Dragon was so powerful, with its rippling body and serpentine tail, its fierce gory colour. "He sat still calling up his ancestors. The great Uther Pendragon and his greater son, Arthur, not dead but sleeping under green banners and silence. Down through a female line, past Owen, the dreamers and warriors of Wales; through Llewellyn, Rhys, Gruffydd, Owain, Maredudd, Hywell (sic), to the misted splendour of Cadell, Rhodri, Merfyn, and last, the Lady Ethil, of the Isle of Man." "That Tudor must destroy Plantagenet,... One by one , until , as the dying Cadwallader prophesied, we are supreme in England, ..." "Arthur had come again. The token of greatness fleshed; the prophesy fulfilled." "...he had received the blessing of God,...and possibly Cadwallader, for whom he was very nearly named." "He (Henry)leaned over the swaddled, grizzling infant and whispered in Welsh; whispered of Llewellyn, of Gladis, of Merfyn and Rhodri, of Iorwerth and Gruffydd, of Iago and Cynan; of Noah." "I will have a realm that my son can rule with the grace of Uther Pendragon, of Llewelyn the Great."
The king's grey mare died yesterday, long live His Majesty King Henry VII and Prince Arthur. For the sake of God, the catholic church and Cymru/Wales don't have a second son.

Anything to do with a pub that you're not using bring it over; I used to have a 'Bass' & a 'Guinness' mirror, pumps that pulled half pint measures, Welsh plaques; dart board (I haven't decided on that yet, nobody plays); don't forget that I'm starting from scratch and I'm living in a country with no pub culture, these things would be difficult to get even if I had money. Anything you can think of, like bar mats, beer mats I can get, that add to the atmosphere of a traditional pub. There are so many places closing that there must be stuff lying around in the breweries going spare.

It's fascinating looking at Kernewek (Cornish vocabulary) as a sort of intermediary between Cymraeg (Welsh) & Brezhoneg (Breton) e.g.: bora (C. Voc. bore), m., dawn, morn; replaced in M. Cor. by myttyn. In Breton morning can be 'beure' or 'mintin' depending on the region. At first glance it looks as though 'mintin' is a corruption of the French 'matin' until one notices 'myttyn'?

'The King's Grey Mare' by Rosemary Hawley Jarman, p.208 - Queen Elizabeth wife of Edward V is at Ludlow Castle with the future Edward VI, she is chatting to Lady Margaret Beaufort who brings her son's name into the conversation - 'I believe your Grace has never seen my son,' she said. 'My Henry Tudor. Descended,' she said proudly, from (wait for it) the royal house of France.' His Welsh Tudor forefathers airbrushed from history. Is there some small comfort they get out of pushing Cymru/Wales aside, is it arrogance, is it ignorance?; that is definitely not the sentence I was expecting, but there again.......